Still in the trace of my tormented thought, My ceaseless cares must march on to my death; Thy least regard to dearly have i bought, Who to my comfort never deign`st a breath. Why should`st thou stop thine ears now to my cries, Whose eyes were open ready to oppress me? Why shut`st thou not the cause whence all did rise, Or hear me now, and seek how to redress? Injurious Delia, yet I`ll love thee still, Whilst that I breathe in sorrow of my smart; I`ll tell the world that I deserv`d but ill, And blame myself for to excuse thy heart. Then judge who sins the greater of us twain: I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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